words make things very specific/ often dangerously so/ the objects made are predicated on situations of love/ on displaying ignorance with innocence// the work is a route through dialectics and melancholy but rooted in neither/ of viewing it as a medium in itself and respecting the eye as maybe not the most profound instrument, but the quickest// that love is not a valley, it is not Autumn, it is not your car or the child you always wanted, it is like water and whatever will sink, will sink/ that it is safer somewhere else, perhaps where your faith lives/ and that is why one must drag it out of the reach of reason and place it into the hands of myth